Naomi noticed the computers first. Hundreds upon hundreds of flashing buttons and panels, kaleidoscopic lights and letters she didn’t recognize but could somehow read:
WARNING! WARNING! YOUR [melody cycle] BEGINS IN [4] NURVONS. PLEASE LOCATE [an appropriate ecosystem] !
The room was straight out of a cyberpunk video game, with a ceiling low enough to be claustrophobic and walls dark and metallic enough to feel clinical, vaguely illuminated by the collective purple glows of all the monitors. She was squeezed into some kind of pilot’s chair, and before her was a massive, sprawling window opening to the existentially chilling void of space.
This led to Naomi noticing the second thing. She couldn’t swear. Or speak. Or breath.
In a cold panic she slammed a hand to her mouth. But other being a little more plump than usual, it could thankfully open and close just fine—there just wasn't anything passing through. And, for some reason, she was fully conscious despite this.
That’s how Naomi realized the third thing. The important thing. She wasn’t Naomi anymore.
Fully naked.
A body over 9 feet tall.
Six fingers on each hand.
Skin black as charcoal, covered in tiny, pulsing, shifting specks of gold.
Hair white as bone, long as she was, drifting in the air like clouds untouched by gravity.
The body was stunning in every way imaginable, and every bit as alien. It was also…
Uh…
Erotic. Cartoonishly erotic.
The hourglass curves of a goddess, with massive breasts that ignored silly things like “moderation” and “gravity”—they were bigger than her head, tapering to soft nipples that literally glowed like sunlight, neatly complemented by an ass to kill for. It was an impossible swell of cushiony goodness, with hips large and wide enough to reach far past her shoulders. Further down still were the sort of thick, heavenly thighs that would explode through most attempts at pants, descending into long, elegant legs and pretty little feet that raised forcibly into arches.
Again, cartoonishly erotic.
Slowly, clumsily, she rose and tiptoed to the window.
…And it became immediately clear that even the body’s joints and muscles were built different to a human’s. They didn’t allow for the long, powerful strides she expected; instead, her steps were slight, mincing. Methodological as one foot insisted on planting itself before the other, pendulum hips swaying side-to-side in mortifyingly rhythmic tandem, cloud-like hair floating lazily behind.
She couldn’t move more like a runway model if she tried.
Her reflection had her original face, at least. Almost. Sort of. It was definitely Naomi, but Naomi as a weird-hot-sparkle-lady. All her flaws and irregularities brushed away to leave her visage soft and breathtaking, with wide, monochromatic eyes and big, kissable lips that all glowed the same glow as her golden pinpricks and nipples.
And as her gaze settled on herself, as she finally began to grasp how this was her… More flashing neon letters. She stumbled back, her towering body unconsciously easing her footfalls with dancer-like grace.
NAME: SUNLIGHT DIVA
SPECIES: VIRTUOSAPIAN
FUNCTION: SHIP CAPTAIN
SKILLS: DAUNTING CONVERSATIONAL PROWESS; PEERLESS TACTICAL MIND; AN ASS TO KILL THE COSMOS;
And, slightly lower, an extremely particular prompt.
SELECT YOUR AESTHETIC:
[milk way mistress]
[locked]
[locked]
‘I…. But… How…?’ She failed to whisper, her perfect, glowy lips too rigid to even shape the words properly. It was as if they were built to pout stoically and nothing else. ‘My friends… My apartment… How is this possible?’
SELECT YOUR AESTHETIC.
‘I don’t know what that means!’ Her heartbeat skyrocketed, only to be echoed by a second heartbeat on her right side. She decided not to acknowledge this. ‘I need to find the others, to get home, to—’
[milky way mistress] SELECTED. LOADING…
Reality shuddered. Naomi’s vision made way for vague shapes and colors, as the world… Pixelated? She winced and struggled to catch herself, the towering height, obnoxious jiggling, and compulsion to walk on tiptoes tugging her in all directions. Just barely, she managed to grip the control panel, right when her vision began to clear…
And…
Oh…
Well, at least she had clothes now?
What could be described as an approximation of a navy uniform, pristine and finely tailored to her body, oozing with clinical authority and doing absolutely nothing to hide the curves. Her starry breasts were tightly packed into the world’s most distracting cleavage, and the pencil skirt was short and snug enough to tease the edge of unprofessionalism—though only just. Resting neatly on her head was a navy cap to match, stylishly tilted to the side and covering one eye. She had a snazzy belt, too, also stylishly tilted, with a ray gun fixed to one side and a sheathed rapier on the other.
An attempt to pull the cap off. It stayed firmly in place. An attempt to kick the pair of new stilettos off. That didn’t work, either.
Naomi grumbled inwardly and plopped back on the pilot’s seat.
